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At The Outset
'Familiar Faces' 'Murkscale, Outset Isle, Morning One' If he wasn't careful, Majin knew he was liable to get a fist thrown his way. Wouldn't be the first time, especially with all the wary side-eyed glances he was getting from the others clustered around him. Out in the front room of Tycho's Tap the clamor of the more savory patrons drew a comfortable veil around the gambling den arranged in the back. Gambling itself was not illegal on the seas, per se, but high stakes games such as these were monitored closely by the Council of Isles, the winnings tracked and taxes assessed with meticulous calculation. If chests of rupees amounting to small fortunes were being won or lost, or if property such as the limited island plots, ships, or the like were changing hands, this new government intended to have its due. But what was gambled safely out of view could not be taxed or taken, and so establishments like these had cropped up all across the Great Sea. Majin himself, along with an ale-sodden Zora with a paunch and a sagging layer of scales and a gaggle of bleary-eyed Hylians were crouched around a ring of bricks erected on the graying floorboards of the back room beneath the shifting light of an oil lamp hung from a nail on the crossbeam directly above their game. Outside of the ring each player had a pile of rupees of various denominations in front of them, all of differing--and with the exception of Majin rapidly dwindling--sizes. More than once he heard curses murmured under their breath as they cast the dice into the circle, picking up angry snippets. "... flooding cheat..." "... my own dice!?" "... she's going to flooding kill me..." He ignored them for the most part. These weren't newcomers to the backroom dice or card games, and most of them had one and lost in nearly equal measure as most did. But the longer they let him cast the dice against whatever they put up, and the more ale they soaked up, the angrier they grew. Tonight was no exception. After a particularly strong throw, the Zora--a dockhand named Lukau with a penchant for frittering away his wages every night waiting for his retched luck to finally turn, shoved the three dice into Majin's waiting hand, following that with an unsteady, glassy-eyed glower as though daring him to beat him again as he'd been doing for much of the night. Majin offered a patronizing grin and took them, raising them and looking them over in his palm, making a show of ensuring that the Zora hadn't palmed the game dice and replaced them with fixed ones of his own as so many cheats tried to do. He had. Suppressing the urge to shake his head in amusement, Majin instead nodded as though satisfied that the dice he'd received were legitimate and closed his fingers around them. A flash of unrestrained satisfaction flitted across Lukau's face, and the corner of his mouth twitched, fighting back a smile. "So what's the bet?" Majin asked, rolling the weighted dice around in his casting hand. The other three had backed out this time, so it was just he and Lukau betting on this round. The drunken Zora leered at him, fighting the twitch of his gaze toward the Tokay's clenched fist. Instead he looked down at the pile of rupees left before him. It was less than half of what he'd already piled up before him when Majin had joined the game late, but it was still much more than the others had managed to hang on to so far. Not exactly a fortune, but not nothing either. Then he looked at the pile in front of Majin, at least half-again as large. Majin could almost read the Zora's math in his eyes. "Got my shift starting in an hour," Lukau mumbled, his tongue loose and imprecise in forming the words. He made a vague gesture at his pile. "I'm putting all in, Murkscale. Whadda 'bout you?" That would earn back more than Lukau had come with, leaving him the night's winner. Majin rolled the dice around in his hand again. With weighted dice Lukau was obviously confident that he'd win the toss, so why not go for broke? Majin nodded, then he threw. The dice hit the floorboards inside the ring of bricks and tumbled madly all the way across the circle, striking the bricks on the far side and then spinning back in toward the center. Majin leaned back in his crouch while Lukau leaned in, eyes alight with anticipation. Before the dice could land on the faces Lukau was counting on, invisible to the unfocused eyes of the lookers-on, the shadows beneath cast by the lamplight above plumed upward in tiny, imperceptible tendrils, striking each die on the bottom, on the side, pushing them from where they should have settled, causing them to lurch to another face, and another until the tumbled over one last time and remained still. Three threes, arranged in an approximate triangle. The Gods' roll. Lukau lurched unsteadily to his feet with a strangled, angry cry. He swayed before he found his balance and then spun fully toward Majin. "Cheat!" Majin also got to his feet, the top of his head coming comically short of the much taller Zora's chin. He looked up into Lukau's enraged face and this time he did smile. "How do you figure?" he asked. "You handed me the dice and saw me roll. How'd I cheat?" The Zora snarled but it was clear that his mind, so fogged with alcohol as it was, couldn't think of a retort that wouldn't implicate himself for his own cheating. Majin watched his fist clench at his side, but after a moment's anticipation all he did was turn and stomp toward the door to the front room, finally vanishing through it leaving his lost rupees behind. Majin turned to the three Hylians who'd remained mostly silent during the game, and had moved back away from the ring of bricks as Lukau had risen. If there was to be a fight in the back of Tycho's Tap, they didn't mean to be a part of it. "Till tomorrow night, fellas," he said, crouching back down and sweeping Lukau's rupees and his own back into the canvas pouch he carried with one arm. Rising back to his feet, he gave the bulging purse a toss, feeling its heft. He didn't cheat much, but he couldn't say he felt bad about punishing Lukau for his attempt either. Back in the front room, most of the patrons had already begun to filter out. Through the boarded up windows--a necessity on the seas when storms raged through--he could see that daylight was peaking in. He hadn't realized that hours had passed. It had been not far past midnight when he'd made his way in. Tycho, owner and barkeep, was nowhere to be seen, so Majin assumed that he'd gone down into the cellar to bring up another ale barrel. Instead of waiting to settle up, Majin just tossed a handful of his new-won wealth onto the bar and made his way to the door. He'd already pulled it half open when he paused and swung it shut again, looking at the poster that had been nailed to the inside. LAST CALL: TOURNAMENT OF THE AGES!!! His Royal Highness invites all brave warriors of sword and flame to compete in his name at the 14th annual Royal Tournament! Festivities will begin on the day of the Equinox at Forsaken Fortress! This year’s grand prize will be a ship and crew for the top three champions, with nothing less than full honorable knighthood upon fealty to the King’s Royal Navy! Ferries and trains will be leaving from every settled isle for two days before! Competitors need only sign up when they reach the shore! Come one, come all, for this once in a lifetime chance to prove you’re the greatest in all the Great Sea!!! "Interesting..." he thought. Events like these bred opportunity, particularly for individuals like himself. "Just a few days off... might be worth hopping a train." As the sound of stumping footfalls could be heard growing louder behind him, signaling Tycho's return from the cellar, Majin reached up and ripped the notice down from the door. As he exited into the morning light on the street outside, he carefully folded the notice and tucked it under the belt hanging crosswise over the tight, studded leather of his jacket. Another new day, a host of new opportunities. Particularly for individuals like himself, rare as those might be these days. 'Tristan Bryseis, Outset Isle Smithy, Night Zero' A blast of hot air came from the forge as Tristan removed his billet. It glowed a bright teal as he grinned at it, knowing he had smelted the ore just right and formed the ingots masterfully. This was no ordinary metal he found. That last expedition gave him a chance to gather something he'd not thought he'd find on the ocean: darksteel. Sure, he was making a lot of noise for this time of night, but he paid well to rent the facilities. He'd forged special hammers months ago in anticipation of this, borrowing an old family adage of if one needed a tool that he should make it himself. And he was going to do that again tonight. Sleep could come later. This would give him an edge in his latest venture. Multiple edges. He'd put drawings all over the workstation and etched chalk outlines on the benches and anvils so that he'd keep parameters met. It would all depend on how the metal drew out... Taking his tongs, Tristan set the first billet down on the anvil and took his first swing. He grinned as sparks flew, and praised Farore for the courage to seek out what he needed at great risk. His young arms continued to move steel at a rapid pace. When Tristan was crafting, he was at his most excited, yet most peaceful. It was just him, his metal, his tools, and the forge. He had to remind himself to keep drinking water. It was a sticky evening, and the rain that fell before sunset only made things more humid. Cats in the forge also gave him solid reminders to take breaks and pet them. That was also the perfect time for a snack. "Ok, it's a knife tonight. Tomorrow, we go for the big stuff. I have enough material to get what I want done. But my bow needs some love." Tristan always worked fast, yet methodical. Some of the contraptions the owner of this forge had set up really helped too. He'd have to borrow these ideas for his workshop, and no, he would not be smithing on his ship. This metal moved beautifully. It was a pain to smelt out of the ore, but he got the blend right, and it took flux well. It was almost time to quench. He'd sharpen after. It only took a small amount of thermocycling to get it where it needed to be. After shooing the cats away from the oil, he took the knife and plunged it deep into the drum. Green fire shot out of it, and he barely avoided getting scorched, but it turned out alright. Examining the newly heat-treated blade, Tristan found no warps. The file skated right across its dark green surface. It should never have gone this easy the first time. The grinder didn't quite like this metal, but it did eventually sharpen. This was turning out to be quite the fighter's knife! The blade itself was about 14 inches long; longer than he'd usually make, but he wanted to make sure it would hold up. This was an investment! He didn't dare drill holes in the tang of the metal just yet. That'd be for another test knife. He opted to go for a tang that would remain hidden in the polished ash driftwood handle. Getting it fashioned and fastened along with a brass guard proved to take more time than anything. Tristan resolved to craft a proper sheath for this new creation in the afternoon after he'd had a good meal and recovered his strength. He was dead tired, but sleep couldn't come yet. He had to test the knife rigorously. It held an edge even after he drove it into the anvil from multiple angles. It cut with very little effort. And it even made a handy razor for his sideburns and their meticulous maintenance. Fruit stood no chance. This thing was sharp, it was light to handle, and it felt great in the hand! All good for a night's work. Morning 1, Outset Isle Tristan cleaned himself up and headed over to Tycho's Tap for breakfast. Yes, it was usually just a watering hole, but they had some surprisingly good food on certain days. It was worth the chance, because he was famished. As he headed in, he noticed the tournament announcement again, as he had a few days prior during his time on shore. This would be Tristan's time to prove that the Sheikah martial arts were superior to others. Adjusting the glove on his left hand, he grinned and read over it again before turning to go into the door. 'Majin Murkscale, Outset Isle, Morning One' The door to the Tap swung open and Majin and another attempted to pass through all at once, Majin outbound as the other was passing through to enter. They bumped hard into one another and Majin, being as ever the smaller of the two, bounced off of his obstruction and staggered a step before he regained his equilibrium. "Watch where you're goi-" Majin cut off as he craned his head up to look into a face bearing an affable expression, framed by long ivory hair and punctuated by gleaming crimson eyes. "Oh, Bryseis, wasn't expecting to see you for a few days yet." He moved aside a step and let his acquaintance--not a friend per se, as Majin had too few of those--through the door and into the front room of Tycho's. The youth cast a scanning gaze around the room, probing the corners and the dark, shadowed spots carefully, an altogether familiar trait to Majin and one that he knew Tristan had picked up from his Sheikah heritage. In that, as with several things, they were very much alike. Majin knew a little something about Tristan, about the name he carried. Bryseis. That was one of those family names that had come to bear special significance in Hyrule, and on this Great Sea that had flooded in and drowned it. Sheikah they were, and more than that. Wordlessly they strode up to the bar counter opposite the front door and slid onto stools. Tycho was still out back, they could each hear the scuffing of feet on the floorboards in the back, the creak of steps as the proprietor bore his burden up from the cellar, grunting softly all the way. A moment later he appeared through the door with a heavy wooden cask balanced on his right shoulder, stepping carefully. "So what did you manage to dredge up this time?" Majin asked as he played with the folded sheaf of parchment with the tourney announcement that had been posted on the inside of the front door. "Take a look," Tristan said, reaching down and plucking out a dagger that had been tucked into his belt, rather than sheathed, and twirled it casually through his gloved fingers. The dark green blade seemed to catch the light of the lamps in odd ways. "Darksteel." Majin inspected the blade carefully. He knew some little bit about the properties of darksteel, as well as how rare the mineral was and how difficult to work. But for all of its quirks, it made weapons and tools of nigh-unparalleled quality, and this blade seemed little different. "Timely," Majin mused as Tycho had set about using the enormous maul to drive the spigot into the ale barrel. While the man went about his business without so much as a glance at his two patrons, Majin pulled the parchment from under his bandolier and unfolded it on the counter top, pushing it to the space between them. "I assume you've seen this? They were posting them before you last pulled out of the harbor. Might present some unusual opportunties, if you have a mind to see what kind of contracts spring up." Tristan examined it for a moment, but was cut off before he could answer as Tycho finally finished with the replacement keg and turned to ask after their orders. Majin wasn't hungry, and it just so happened that as Tristan conversed with the owner, Majin caught sight of a Rito sticking his head through the door which had been pushed just slightly ajar. "Excuse me," Majin murmured, sliding down from his stool as Tristan was ordering what sounded like enough food for three meals, rather than one breakfast. Taking the moment's distraction, he crossed the room to the door and pushed the Rito outside into the street, following and letting the door click shut at his back. With his right hand he made a waving motion up the back of his neck as though he were pulling up a hood. A well of inky shadow that had compressed and conformed on the inside of the collar to his studded leather coat seeped up in the wake of his hand's passage and in an instant it was as though he wore a hood of black cloth, deep as a clouded midnight, concealing all but the nostrils of his reptilian snout. "What are you doing here?" he asked sharply, steering the Rito down the steps, around the railing, and around again into the narrow alleyway separating Tycho's from the apothecary next door. He was roughly Majin's height, and his plain garb did not announce him for a courier, though Majin knew exactly what he was. Circumspect, rarely a good sign. "I told your boss I wasn't interested in any more of his errands after what he tried to ask of me last time." "You'll have to take that up with him, agent," the courier replied with a shrug. Hands went to the back slung across his chest and extracted a letter, folded carefully and enclosed with a wax seal that Majin knew only too well. "Once I put this in your hand, it's no business of mine what you do." Majin grunted and snatched the letter. Once firmly in his grasp, the Rito courier took to the air with a few strong flaps of his wings and disappeared over the apothecary eaves. Majin broke the seal with a crooked finger and unfurled the parchment. His eyes scanned over the missive, written in a tight, cramped hand, and then quickly crumpled it as soon as he finished. Holding it tight in his right first, he let moisture seep out from his palm and into the letter, slowly soaking it until it deteriorated between his fingers. Once the letter was little more than wet tatters, any ink smudged beyond recognition, he shook the water droplets and bits of wet parchment off into the dirt and then headed back around the mouth of the alley and into the front room of Tycho's, where Tristan still sat at the bar, now with huge plate mounded with steaming food set before him. With a hand gesture as though he was lowering the hood of a cloak, the shadow cowl wavered and dissipated in wisps of black vapor as Majin clambered back up onto the stool at Tristan's right hand. All the while the words of the missive wriggled uncomfortably in the back of his thoughts, along with all too many private and important messages that had been left for him since his waking. None of them would lead to anything other than trouble, and he'd caused more than enough of that however many centuries lay between then and now. Still, he mused to himself, a job was a job and Majin was who he had always been. He set a hand down on the tournament invitation, upon which rested Tristan's utensils, and drummed his fingers to draw Tristan's eyes up from his laden fork. "So," he said with particular casualness, "back to what I was saying about contracts... I might have a line on a job that'll take me up to Forsaken Fortress anyway. Going to coincide with the big event it seems. Should be plenty of work for two, if you're interested." 'Tristan, Outset Isle-Tycho's Tap Room, Morning 1' The fatigue had really thrown Tristan off. Normally he'd be a lot more aware so as to avoid bumping into people on his way somewhere; his routes were carefully planned most of the time for efficiency and for minimal contact with others unless he purposed to find someone. Bumping into Majin, however, was a good thing. Tristan had some enemies, and he was glad Majin wasn't one of them. When the Tokay greeted him, Tristan nodded in response and gave a lopsided grin as his acquaintance stepped aside to let him go through. He motioned behind his back in a subtle fashion to advise to follow. Tycho stood at the bar taking down some inventory notes, and didn't really say much when he saw a Sheikah and a Tokay settle up to the bar. He welcomed all types in this establishment, provided they kept things mostly civil and had rupees to spend. Tristan was eager to show his handiwork to Majin after a long night of smithing. Majin seemed slightly impressed at the find as well. "I managed to find a few veins and will most likely be going back for more after the tournament. How someone didn't claim it yet surprised me, but eh, I will take it as long as it's there." Majin showed him one of the fliers for the tournament. Tristan grinned again upon seeing it, eager to test himself. "Oh, absolutely did. I'll be entering. That's why I made the knife. Might make more if I have some time, but you're right. Can't go wrong on the lookout for some extra action." The Tokay abruptly excused himself while the barkeep was bringing food back from the kitchen. Tristan was almost always a big eater. It was a combination of his youth, his tiredness, and the caloric high-protein requirement of his physical fitness regimens. The young man pushed himself all day, every day. And sometimes he pushed himself for a huge plate of bacon and tall glasses of orange juice in the morning as a victory dance. Tycho knew who to order his meat from. The bacon was sublime as Tristan tucked into it, but he kept his awareness on point and saw Majin come back to the stool. It was probably a good thing he wasn't using utensils. His face was covered with grease as he reached for a banger that he dipped into some gravy-soaked mashed spuds. "I like how you think. Count me interested. When do we ship out?" 'Rakki Silverfish, Tycho's Tap, Morning 1' "Pair of kings!" Rakki laid his cards on the table and grinned. Not a great hand, but apparently good enough for this lot. He was beginning to like the future. As the Zora collected his winnings, another player at the table, clearly intoxicated, took the opportunity to opine about politics. "There's only one king, and that is his grace King Daphnali of the Isles!" he blearily slurred out before taking another swig of ale. Another chimed in, laughing. "Tell that to the Old Royals! From the sound of it, they should be plotting a coup any day now!" Rakki put his hands up in a gesture of "I surrender" and joined in their drunken raparte. "Hey, don't look at me, I'm obviously not up on current events." That received a round of uproarious laughter from the table. He'd played with these guys regularly since coming to Outset several weeks ago, and by now they were well aware of his claim to be from the distant past. They called him "future boy" despite the fact that made little to no sense, assuming his story to be the drunken puffery of a habitual gambler. Of course, Rakki rarely drank, and never enough to impair his senses. He took the game seriously and liked to keep a clear head when making bets. "You are planning on entering the Royal Tournament, though, yes?" "Of course. This may not be the monarchy I was raised with, and I don't exactly need a ship, but a knight-hood is just too good to pass up." Rakki looked around the table, an idea popping into his head. Why not? He'd spent months trying to get the damn thing working again, talked to every shaman and sorcerer on the Great Sea, and so far no luck. If he was ever going to get home again, this thing was probably not his ticket. But he might as well have some fun with it, and make some money while he was at it. He fished through his satchel and pulled out the broken shard of time-shift stone. "What do you say we make the next round interesting?" He threw the shard on the table, and immediately the table grew silent, all eyes on the shard of clearly mystical material, its glowing runes shifting and changing in color. The bets started pouring in, and the cards were dealt. Suddenly his attention was pulled away by the action at a nearby table. A Tokay was there, clearly far more level-headed and in control of his faculties than his inebriated competition. Rakki watched as the man closed the dice in his palm in a strangely deliberate and focused manner, with obvious intent, as if casting a spell. That kind of superstitious behavior wasn't uncommon among this sort of gambler, but the calm, focused, rational affect was. ...and then he threw. It was subtle, but unmistakable if you really paid attention (which of course, the drunken travellers around the table did not). The shadows, they were wrong somehow. They seemed to move and warp, caressing the dice. The God's roll...of course it was. "Future boy! Your bet!" Rakki was suddenly snapped back to the present. "...I fold. Keep it. It's a gift. A fat load of good it will do you, though." Ignoring the perplexed faces around the table, Rakki got up from the table and cashed out his earnings (which were still substantially larger than the sum he'd walked in with), suddenly very curious about the stranger using magic to cheat at dice. Not that Rakki hadn't had the same thought, but his control of the wind was far too imprecise to be useful as a gambling aid...plus there was the whole morality aspect of it. Rakki followed at a distance, careful not to reveal his intent to his quarry, stopping at a distance as the Tokay met a Sheikah at the door. "Oh, Bryseis, wasn't expecting to see you for a few days yet." Rakki stopped dead in his tracks. "Bryseis?" he whispered to himself. It can't be. In an instant he forgot about the Tokay, who walked out of the building to attend to some other business. The Zora stood there cautiously for a moment, not wanting to draw attention, as the Tokay returned to the bar and continued his conversation with this person who now had Rakki's complete attention. Rakki eavesdropped at a distance as the two discussed a job, and the tournament at Forsaken Fortress, before finally summoning the courage to join them. Walking up to the bar and sitting at a stool next to the Sheikah, called Tristan apparently, Rakki attempted to be as casual as possible. "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear, you two are headed to the Royal Tournament? I'm just headed that way myself, actually. I could use a ride." Rakki instantly winced at the silliness of this statement. He was a Zora, he could easily swim there without any help. Roll with it, he thought. "If the sea weren't so infested with Gyorgs, I'd swim there, of course, but you know how it is. I could use a ride."